


Letters From Home

by SkyEverett



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sad and Beautiful, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4654668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyEverett/pseuds/SkyEverett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the heat of World War II, every soldier thinks of his family.  During some of their worst and finest hours, Russia, Austria, and America are hit with reminders that they are never alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters From Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Letters From Home](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/139488) by John Michael Montgomery. 



  _My dear brother, it's almost July.  I hope this letter catches up with you and finds you well.  It's been dry, but they're calling for rain.  Everything's the same old same in Kiev.  Your stubborn little sister hasn't said too much, but I'm sure you know she sends her love._  
      _Будь сильным,_  
_-Katyushka_  
  
Russia sighed as he folded his letter and put it in a pocket on the inside of his shirt.  “Oh, Kat,” he whispered.  “I wish you did not have to see what I have seen...”  With a heart that felt like it was about to fall out of his chest, Russia looked out at the desolate, burned wreckage of his home, Moscow.    
  
He remembered this street quite well.  Sometimes he would walk around and smell the sweet aroma of snow mixed with warm bread.  In fact, he was standing right next to a pile of plaster that used to be a bakery.  The baker's daughter would always make sweet cookies for him with sunflower seeds on top.  It wasn't much, but Russia always paid to make sure that that bakery thrived.  In all honesty, he couldn't bear to think about that sweet little girl, all alone in the cold.  But he didn't know where she was now—hopefully she was retreating to another part of the country, where she could play with her dolls and bake those wonderful cookies.  Maybe he could go and visit her after he finished ripping Germany's throat open.  
  
He wasn't going to kill Germany for betraying him.  He was going to  _break_  him.    
  
A small smile crossed Russia's face as he imagined himself and Germany on opposite ends—with Germany burning his own cities as Russia and his mighty Red Army swept through Berlin, destroying anything that the German forces had overlooked or thought unimportant.     
  
“I can hold them off until General Winter comes,” Russia whispered under his breath.  “He will kill them all.”  Russia could already see blue corpses in the snow, trophies left in his wintery friend's wake.  
  
“What was that,  _товарищ?”_  asked one of the nearby soldiers.  
  
Russia scoffed.  “Just reading a letter from sister in Ukraine,” he answered.  “I am grateful that she is somewhere that doesn't see so much destruction.”  
  
“That is good,” answered the soldier, “but we should focus on pushing back the German traitors.”  
  
“Stalin's orders are to fight to the last man,” said Russia.  “I will follow his orders.”  
  
_“Aминь_  to that,” replied his comrade.  
  
_I fold it up and put it in my shirt_  
      _Pick up my gun and get back to work_  
_And it keeps me driving on_  
_Waiting on...letters from home_  
  


* * *

  
  
_My dearest love, it's almost dawn.  I've been lying here all night long wondering where you might be.  I called your boss, but he seems busy.  A man on the radio said something...so I couldn't sleep.  But I'll be all right; I'm just missing you.  This is me kissing you._  
      _X's and O's_  
_-Elizaveta_  
  
Austria was rarely taken aback by anything regarding Hungary.  She was a stubborn, determined, headstrong soldier, and never admitted weakness in a time of war.  Losing her was a terrible thing for him—those traits were traits he lacked.  He preferred to stick to tradition, and he did try to deny Germany the right to take over his homeland and control his people, but once Italy refused to interfere, Germany did not take no for an answer.  
  
This, however, ground him to the core.  Hungary, his rebellious, boisterous ex-wife was admitting weakness to him during a rendition of the Great War itself, the war that separated them forever.  Austria was deeply moved that she would even consider writing this.    
  
All the thought it took to write and send this letter to him made him smile.  And on a bleak, gloomy battlefield, where he was forced to fight in the Waffen SS, Austria's grieving mind flooded with emotion for the woman that—in a small corner of his mind—he still loved with all his heart.  
  
_I fold it up and put it in my shirt_  
      _Pick up my gun and get back to work_  
_And it keeps me driving on_  
_Waiting on...letters from home_  
  


* * *

  
  
Operation Overlord sounded really heroic from a distance, and America was sure that it was going to be his finest hour.  
  
It was the biggest Allied operation he had been a part of, and the bridge of canoes into Normandy beach, blending with the absolute silence, was like a calm-before-the-storm kind of moment.  It was like everyone was waiting for all hell to break loose.  
  
America was sure, that once his troops reached the beach, it would.  And to be honest, that terrified him.  He had a nagging fear that Germany already knew he was coming, and was just beyond those trees, waiting for America to fall into his trap like fish in a net.  
  
_Well, I'll just have to make my debut even more mind-blowing!_  he thought.  Grinning quietly to himself, he reached into one of his many pockets to check for extra bullets, but found a slightly crumpled and damp envelope instead.  Slightly curious, America drew it out of his pocket and read the blurred writing on it.  
  
It was a letter from England.  
  
Now, America had been in stressful situations with the Brit, but this completely threw him.  England didn't even have much to say after Germany set his capital aflame; there was only silent hatred and a vow to settle the score.  England and America never really spoke, and when America tried to, he was only met with disgust, disdain and annoyance.  America was beginning to believe that England really felt nothing towards him, and those times before his Revolution were gone forever.    
  
This letter was both exciting and terrifying.  
  
Nevertheless, America slit it open with his bayonet and withdrew a piece of stationary that was folded four times.  He opened it up, expecting to find a telegraph, or a battle plan that he forgot to discard.  Instead he saw England's slanted, rushed handwriting.  
  
_I know I haven't written, but I'm sitting here tonight alone in my quarters and it occurred to me...I haven't said it, so I'll say it now._  
    _You make me proud._  
_-England_  
  
Every raw nerve, every abstract thought, every pre-battle jitter in America's body halted as he read those words.  America could definitely say without a doubt that England was proud.  He just never stopped to consider the fact that England might be proud of  _him._  
  
“Matthew, look at this.”  
  
Canada, his younger brother, looked up eagerly, happy that America remembered his presence for once—and said his name.  “Yes?  What is it, Alfred?”  
  
Wordlessly, America pushed the letter towards him.  
  
_I hold it up and show my buddies like_  
     _We ain't scared and our boots ain't muddy_  
_But no one laughs_  
_'Cuz there ain't nothin' funny when a soldier cries_  
  
Canada didn't say anything as he read the letter carefully a few times.  He smiled, and passed it back to his brother.  “Take good care of this, Alfred.”    
  
_And I just wipe my eyes..._  
  
Eyes blurry with unshed tears, America took the letter and read it over once again.  As he traced his caretaker's handwriting, he began to see flashes of England's smiling face from back when everything was innocent and there was no such thing as war.  Back when the world was beautiful.  
  
Now he was going into hell, trying to free an Allied power from the clutches of Germany's Nazis.  He would have no knowledge of England and where he was, or how many injuries they would all have at the end of the day.  He was sure of one thing, though.    
  
In little ways, like letters from dear ones, the world is still beautiful.  
  
_I fold it up and put it in my shirt_  
     _Pick up my gun and get back to work_  
_And it keeps me driving on_  
_Waiting on…_  
__  
_...letters from home..._


End file.
